A Harry Potter Christmas Carol
by PotterFanSteve
Summary: Merry Christmas 2011!  This is about Tom Riddle's spirited last Christmas - and last chance for salvation - at Hogwarts.


A Harry Potter Christmas Carol

Merry Christmas 2011 from PotterFanSteve!

Finally, he was alone!

Being Head Boy was such a waste of his time and talents, but it was really one of the smallest prices he was willing to pay to prove to everyone that he was the greatest Wizard in the world. It was Christmas Eve, and he had his dorm room to himself since most of the Hogwarts students and Professors had left on Friday morning to spend the holidays at home with their families. The doddering old fool, Headmaster Dippet, had stayed, but Dumbledore had, thankfully, not.

The great Albus Dumbledore. What a joke! More like the great coward. Wizards like Grindelwald were out there doing great things while Dumbledore hid here at school and whined about what was right and good. What utter nonsense that was. Gellart Grindelwald and his followers understood what power was for, and were willing to use it. Dumbledore and his lot of pathetic do-gooders were clueless incompetents. Maybe Grindelwald will do the Wizarding World a favor and put Dumbledore out of his misery sometime. Now that was a cheery thought!

He was happy about not going home for the holidays. In fact, he had no intentions of ever going back 'home' again; and rarely gave the place, or the people there, a single thought. He certainly wasn't wasting his Christmas Eve thinking about his past life there – he had better things to do. Christmas was as stupid a holiday as the rest of them, but he was excited tonight. Not because of the few gifts that he would be getting that Dippet or one of the other Professors would have picked up for him, but because of the gift he was going to give himself for Christmas.

"Tom Riddle."

He looked up quickly in startled reaction to the hoarse whisper. When he saw the Bloody Baron, he understood why his wards hadn't alerted him that anyone else was around. They weren't set up to work on ghosts. Nodding and pasting on his usual 'public' face, he closed the book he'd been reading and flipped it over so the Baron wouldn't see what he was working on.

"Hello Baron," he answered. His voice was cultured, silky-smooth, and as fake and controlled as the expression on his face. "This is a first. Can I help you?"

"It is you who is in need of help this night," the Baron advised him in the same bone-chilling, gravelly whisper as he drifted nearer to where Tom sat on his bed.

"You're mistaken, Baron. I don't need help with anything from anyone."

The Baron shook his head. "That I am here – that there were no others – is enough proof that you are in more need than any who have come before you," he disagreed.

"Pardon, Baron, but you make no sense. I am in need for nothing."

"Except your Salvation," the Baron countered. "Since that is something beyond my reach, you would do well to heed me."

Tom laughed; ignoring the flash of anger his outburst caused with the Baron. "Let me guess," he said derisively. "I'm to be visited by three spirits; learn some cosmic lesson, and change my ways before it's too late." He laughed again. "I've read the stupid Muggle book; and been stuck listening to the telling of it on the radio every Christmas for years. Spare me the waste of time."

"You're more the fool to think so," the Bloody Baron hissed hoarsely.

"And I'm surprised that a proper pureblood would be part of something that was dreamed up by some old, dead Muggle with a terrible sense of humor. 'There's more of gravy than of grave about you'. Pathetic."

"You've not a clue of what you speak, boy, but since you apparently know what's coming; my task is done. Heed what your spirit guides have to teach, Tom. Salvation is beyond me; but it's not yet too late for you."

"Expect the first spirit when the clock strikes one," Tom said with what was meant to be a haunting, ghostly wail and a cynical sneer; but the Baron ignored him and floated out of the room.

"That's just great," he thought to himself. Those idiots in the Spirit Division at the Ministry likely wouldn't do anything about this even if he sent a Patronus to them. There wouldn't even be anyone at the Ministry until after Christmas. He got his book out again, and tried to concentrate on that, but he soon found his thoughts drifting away – and back. Unlike old Ebenezer, he had no doubt that there were three ghosts on the way, and thinking about that ruffled his memories of his years at Wool's orphanage. Finally, instead of going there, he put his things away and went to sleep. Might as well get some rest while he could.

"Time to get up my boy," a voice said cheerfully.

Tom groaned, rolled over, and looked up at the apparition floating next to his bed. "It figures. They would have to send a Gryffindor to show me the errors of my ways. I have every confidence that you'll botch this as badly as your attempt to join the Headless Hunt."

"No need to be so rude, Mr. Riddle. After all, I'm here to help you," Nick said huffily. "I'd expect more of a Hogwarts Head Boy."

"You're the ghost of Christmas Past," Tom reminded him with a derisive laugh. "If you know all about my past, then there's no point in playing nice with you tonight. Let's just get it over with."

"Very well," Nick declared; still looking put out. "Come with me, and pay heed!"

There was a blur that was something like Apparating, but not quite the same. Tom wasn't surprised when their first stop was Wool's Orphanage. It was winter time, and though he didn't feel it, there was ample evidence that it was quite cold. There was only a little snow on the ground; smoke rose lazily from the chimneys of the orphanage and nearby buildings; and the few Muggles in the area all looked like they wished to be elsewhere.

"If I wanted to see this dump again, I could use a Pensieve," he groused. "Why waste my time?"

"Your memories are affected by your perceptions," Nick answered. "My time is short, so let us begin."

There was another blur, and then they were inside of the orphanage. Tom grimaced in annoyance as the sights, sounds, and smells of the place engulfed him in a nauseating wave of heightened sensation. Mrs. Cole and Martha were in the hallway with them, and Martha was gently holding a baby. His attention was first drawn past them; through the open doorway they stood closest to, where he could see the prone, unmoving form of a young woman.

"Happy Birthday, Mr. Riddle," Nick said softly.

"Take the babe up to the nursery," Mrs. Cole told Martha. "I'll make the arrangements to take care of his mother; God rest her soul."

"Tom Marvolo Riddle. Strange name, Marvolo," Martha mused. "You're a beautiful baby, Tom." She placed a tender kiss on his forehead, and then smiled at Mrs. Cole. "Should I feed him too?"

"If he wakes and needs it," she agreed.

Tom took all of that in, but moved around them to go into the room where he knew his mother's body lay as if drawn there under an Imperius curse. Seeing his mother for the first time evoked as much anger in him as seeing his dirty Muggle father and grandparents had done this past summer when he finally tracked them down. He looked down at her now with the same dead-cold, hate-filled expression that had been on his face after killing his father.

"You don't know the half of her story," Nick told him.

"I know enough," Tom countered dismissively. "No wonder I've not been able to find even one picture of her – she's quite possibly even uglier than her brother. No wonder she couldn't even get a Muggle to be with her without a potion or charm. She probably did me a favor by leaving me in this dump."

"Does that mean you no longer hate her for doing that – and for dying?"

Tom laughed. "I've more than enough reasons to hate her, and the rest of my pathetic excuse for a family. Move along – there's nothing to be learned here."

Nick shook his head sadly, but did 'move along'; beginning with showing Tom a series of scenes from his first weeks and months at the orphanage. Martha was at the heart of nearly all of those memories, and Tom watched as she cared for his infant and toddler self; showering him with kindness and love. Nick stopped the progression of memories at a time when he was probably just over a year old; and Martha was caring for him through the night while he was sick.

"Is this supposed to make me all misty-eyed?" Tom asked with a snort and dismissive wave of a hand. "She was paid to care for us – and I don't think she was even all that good at it."

"She was on her own time for this," Nick advised him, "and she loved you as a mother even though you never offered even a trace of affection in return."

"Love," Tom answered scornfully. "That's possibly the one thing even more ridiculous than a merry Christmas."

"Now where have I heard that before – Scrooge?" Nick joked.

"The difference here being that I'm not some weak-minded Muggle to be fooled so easily."

"Opening your mind – and heart – doesn't make you weak," Nick told him. "It makes you more."

"That didn't work so well for you," Tom shot back scathingly. "Led you to a botched decapitation from what I heard. What were you trying to do for the royal lady when she grew that tusk? Maybe you should've paid attention to what you were doing instead of looking down her bodice."

"Well – I never!" Nick sputtered as Tom laughed raucously.

"Maybe that was your problem," Tom suggested meaningfully. "There must be some reason why you didn't just fix the lady up, use memory charms on the royal Muggles, and forget the whole thing happened instead of going to the gallows." He smirked at Nick. "Now that might be a visit down memory lane that would be much more fun than hanging around in this dump. Shall we?"

"No, we shall not," Nick said huffily. "Do you remember William and Diana Walsh?" They'd moved ahead in time then, and had already arrived at the next point in Tom's young life before Tom could answer.

"Why on earth would I even care about this? I barely even met them."

"By your choice," Nick reminded him, "though they spent quite a bit more time with you than you seem to remember. If you hadn't so utterly rejected their love, they would have adopted you. That's rather astonishing to see that you were like that from such a young age."

"Give me a break," Tom said dismissively. "I'd heard the stories. They were just looking for slave labor – that's the only reason why kids from this place get adopted." He remembered the scene they were now watching – the last time that he saw the young couple – and his nearly two-year old self had refused to go home with them for the Christmas holidays.

"If that's so, then why is the young lady crying?" Nick asked. Tom had been watching himself leave the room, and glanced back to look at the two young Muggles. William was talking quietly to his wife; trying to console her. He didn't feel anything at this show of emotion. They were Muggles, and their feelings or thoughts were as unimportant to him as those of House Elves or farm animals.

"There are lots of other orphans dumb enough to fall for the tears and a good lie." He ignored the distant voice that told him that her tears were more than that.

"There was another for them," Nick agreed, "but that doesn't change the fact that it could have been you; and it could have changed your life had you given them a chance."

Nick then showed Tom other scenes and Christmases from his years at the orphanage, but the rebuffed offers of friendship from some of the other boys, and the un-requited little-girl love that Amy Benson had once held for him were no more moving for him than any of the other memories. Nick was able to get him to smile as they worked their way through his past, but those smiles came at the remembrances of some of the worst things he'd done. He laughed at the sight of Billy Stubbs' rabbit dangling from the rafters, and relished the terrors that he put Amy and Eric Whalley through at the seaside cave. He'd laughed again when Nick advised him that Amy was hurt most by the crushing lost love that might have been.

His Hogwarts years were next, and the supposed missed opportunities included mentors like Dumbledore would have been for him; true friendships instead of the gang of followers he did have; and the love of Lucretia Black. That last revelation had actually surprised him, since he'd been completely unaware of her interest in him. Lucretia was a bit more than a year older than he was; and a year ahead of him. She and her cousin, Walburga had spent a lot of time with him and his gang, but he'd thought that was mostly because their younger brothers, Orion and Cygnus, were part of that group. When Nick showed him a scene where Lucretia confided to her cousin that she'd risk being disowned by their family for the handsome young Wizard; – which would happen to her just because he was an orphan – he couldn't even comprehend why she'd even consider such a choice. He wouldn't have had any feelings for her even if he had known, but he was glad that Orion had advised him that she was stepping out with Ignatius Prewett since shortly after leaving school in June. The last thing he needed in his life was some love-sick girl chasing after him!

As with the memories from the Orphanage, it was the darkest moments from the past six years or so that brought smiles to his face. Nick showed him the repercussions from his actions in a long line of incidents; the worst being the injuries and murder caused by the basilisk that he'd released from the Chamber of Secrets; and fully controlled. He still could hardly believe that everyone had believed it when he hung the whole thing on that buffoon, Hagrid, and his pet Acromantula. Finally, Nick showed him the recent visit he'd made to Little Hangleton during the summer.

"Don't try telling me about how wonderful my life could have been with these Muggles," Tom warned; his eyes flashing with dark anger and hate. "That would just be absurd."

"We're here to show you the consequences of your actions; not what might – or might not – have been possible with your family," Nick advised him. "Let's start here at the estate. Do you notice anything wrong?"

Tom shrugged. "No. Should I?"

"There's nobody here," Nick pointed out; and Tom laughed.

"That was my plan," he said before laughing again.

"Which you accomplished so successfully that all of the people who would normally be working here no longer have jobs – or a way to support their families." Nick sighed and shook his head sadly. "There are a lot of children in Little Hangleton who are spending their Christmas Eve cold and hungry tonight – because of you."

"From what I saw, the lot of them are better off without their former masters," Tom declared dismissively.

"We shall see," Nick told him; shaking his head again.

Tom did see too, but didn't care at all about the fate of any of the Muggles who'd been affected by the death of his father and grandparents any more than he cared about his Uncle's fate in Azkaban. His own experiences from growing up in an orphanage didn't earn any sympathy for the despondent children who were not expecting to have any Christmas cheer this year, and he laughed at the plight of poor Frank Bryce. The disabled war veteran had been cleared of suspicion in the murders of his former employers, though that seemed to only be in the eyes of the law; since some woman – idiotically named Dot – had most of the Muggles in town convinced that he had been the killer even if the police couldn't prove it. When they were finished in Little Hangleton, Nick returned Tom to his dorm room.

"If you're thinking about a career as the Ghost of Christmas Past, I'd reconsider," Tom told him. "The good news is that there's finally something you're even worse at than beheadings."

"Your fate will be far worse than mine if you don't change your ways and make amends," Nick told him, though his tone of voice and expression clearly showed that he was insulted and upset by Tom's comments.

Tom waved him away dismissively. "Go haunt someone else and let me get some sleep before Christmas Present comes to call." Nick did leave then; and Tom climbed into bed and was quickly off to sleep again.

"WAKE… UP!"

Tom practically jumped out of bed, and then glared at the apparition floating in the air next to his bed. "Don't you have something better to do tonight – like haunt Olive Hornby?"

"I'm letting her have a good night's sleep as a Christmas present," Moaning Myrtle said loudly and sarcastically, and then smiled as she looked him up and down speculatively. "Her loss might be your gain – in more ways than one." Her girlish giggle echoed hollowly, and Tom grimaced; ignoring her stupid insinuation, and wishing he had a way to end these ghostly visitations.

"There's no chance at all that your visit will be anything but a complete waste of my time," he declared. "I'm surprised that you've been stuck with the Ghost of Christmas Present job. You're not exactly bubbling with holiday cheer these days."

"I've always loved Christmas," Myrtle declared in a near-shriek. "This one has been even more fun than the last; though not so much fun for Olive," she added with a squeal of laughter. "Enough of that, Tommy. Time for your little tour through the present."

"Don't call me that!" Tom spat; and Moaning Myrtle cackled in glee.

"Should I call you Lord Voldemort instead?" she asked; laughing again as she curtsied to him mockingly. "That's your secret name with your little gang, isn't it?" She laughed again. "I can't follow Olive around all the time," she advised him, "and the Prefects' bath does offer some entertainment for me."

Tom hadn't time for a suitable retort because Myrtle chose that moment to get them started on their little trip. He'd been sure that stop number one would be Wool's Orphanage again, and they arrived in the large sitting room; where Mrs. Cole and most of the orphans had gathered to spend the evening together; listen to the radio; chat; and enjoy a few Christmas treats and drinks. The Orphanage was over-full, a sad bi-product of the ongoing war; and another reason why he was glad to be done with the place.

"Should we start with the kids and teens that are still so tormented by the things you did to them that they can't enjoy anything at all?" Myrtle asked, "or would you like to see the Christmas cheer that your absence this year has brought to most of the others?"

"They're Muggles – who cares whether they're alive or dead, let alone happy or sad."

"If you understood why you should care, you'd be getting a good night's sleep right now," Myrtle answered. "Let's start with Amy Benson."

"Yes, lets," Tom agreed sarcastically. "The delusional future tavern wench or chambermaid who was crushed to find out that I wasn't her prince charming."

"Sure, blame your victims," Myrtle wailed. "If you'd left her alone, that poor girl wouldn't be sitting there seeing nothing more than the horrors you inflicted on her." There was another blur, and they were in one of the bedrooms. "Dennis Bishop wouldn't be considering killing himself tonight,' she added; waving to the despondent teen who was sitting on his bed and running his hands back and forth along one end of an old, worn, braided rope.

Tom smirked darkly. "Is this where I'm supposed to ask you if he'll still be around next Christmas, or suggest that he get on with it and decrease the surplus population?"

"You really are the worst sort of git," Myrtle declared in disgust. "Would it surprise you to know that he wouldn't wish the same for you?"

He laughed this time. "I'm not the one with a death wish."

"There are things worse than death, Tom. If you don't change your ways; you'll find that out the hard way. Time to move on."

She took him to see the Muggle couple who would have adopted him next; and they watched them celebrating Christmas with the beautiful teenaged daughter they'd made part of their family and who could have been his bright, loving sister. He was as derisive about them as he'd been about the kids at the orphanage, and Myrtle was becoming quite put out with him. After leaving the happy Walsh family behind, they looked in on few Christmases with some of the guys from school that he could have been invited to share if he'd accepted their past offers of true friendship instead of surrounding himself with the scoundrels and sycophants in his gang.

"You're a bit of a voyeur aren't you?" Tom declared when she showed him what might have been for him with Lucretia Black – a rather intimate Christmas Eve snogging session that Ignatius Prewett was sharing with her instead. "Prefect baths must not be the only diversion you find at Hogwarts when you're not tormenting Olive."

"I'd rather have that than be like you, and choose having nothing and being alone over the love you could have had with Lucretia."

"Sure," Tom said with a snort. "Having a disowned girlfriend, and being an outcast among all purebloods by association fits perfectly into my plans."

"Your salvation would require a change in those plans," Myrtle advised him just as scathingly.

"With enough power and a little immortality, I'll create my own salvation," he declared confidently.

"We can definitely add delusional megalomaniac to your list of personal issues, but I digress; my time's nearly up; and we have a few more places to go and people to see."

Those remaining visits included Christmases with a series of his victims and their families, including his Uncle Morfin in Azkaban, and Myrtle's own family. She had been very offended when he'd laughed at her family, but he'd actually been laughing at her because she thought she'd added that stop in by accident so that she could see her family. It was probably a good thing that she hadn't been given the Christmas Past job, or she might have decided to start haunting him instead of Olive; but it was obvious that she hadn't been allowed to know who was responsible for her death. Laughing as he had did accomplish one thing – Myrtle rather abruptly dumped him off in his dorm room and went storming off after screeching at him for another minute or two. That worked for him; and he climbed into bed and went back to sleep.

"LORD VOLDEMORT – I HAVE COME FOR YOU!"

For the second time of the night, Tom leapt into consciousness, staring at the hulking, darkly-robed, and menacing form towering over his bed. His consternation lasted until the mad giggling started.

"You're an idiot, Peeves," he declared; watching as the pesky poltergeist disrobed and floated above him at the height the cowled hood of the robe had just been. "So's whoever let you be the Ghost of Christmas Future."

"Says the guy who wants all of the work and headaches that go along with ruling the world," Peeves shot back; giggling madly again. "Time to go, oh great dark one."

Peeve's journey into the future was very different than the first two trips had been. Each scene was indistinct, and though they didn't see faces, or even where they were, Tom did get to see what was happening, and Peeves happily taunted him as they moved along. There were murders and torture, fire and destruction, and much more. The moments that Tom clung to were those showing his power and he reveled in the fear and awe that other Witches and Wizards held for him. One scene seemed especially significant; though he was only able to sense that something big happened, and that he'd survived something that would have been sure death to any lesser Wizard.

"Oh we must stop to get a better look at this," Peeves declared with maniacal glee; and Tom watched as a store window sign in what was obviously Diagon Alley came into sharp focus. Peeves laughed raucously. "A sure sign of your greatness," he announced effusively. "Why are you worrying about You-Know-Who?" he read aloud. "You should be worrying about U-No-Poo. The constipation sensation that's sweeping the nation!" He laughed again in delight. "Nothing screams fame louder than satire. The comparison of your future self to poo is rather brilliant too; though that's really just not fair to poo."

"Laugh it up while you can, Peeves, but I'll be the one that everyone's too afraid of to even use my name; so maybe you should be careful who you're taunting now."

There was another blur, and the smirk that had been on Tom's face dropped away. "I won't be the only one laughing at you," Peeves cackled in glee. It took a moment to sink in, mostly because the rest of the scene was a shadowy blur, but Tom could hear that there was laughter all around them; along with cheering, shouting, and what sounded like hundreds of voices all around them. The only thing that was clear of the scene – the reason why his face had drained of color, and his heart had begun pounding in abject fear – was the dead body lying on the floor.

"That's not me," he declared shakily. Peeves laughed raucously.

"Yes it is," he assured Tom, "and you know it." He laughed gleefully again. "How does it feel to go from Lord Voldy to Lord Moldy?"

"This hasn't happened yet – and won't," Tom yelled angrily. He spun around in a circle as the cheering and laughter swelled to a roar. "I won't let this happen! You'll see – I'll show you all!" he bellowed.

"You know the story," Peeves jeered. "Learn from what you've been shown this night, or this will indeed be your fate." He cackled again, and swept Tom back into his dorm room. "Time's up, Voldy – in more ways than one if you get my meaning." With that, he floated off, laughing raucously as he sang – "Don't be afraid of You-Know-Who; get U-No-Poo; the constipation sensation; that's sweeping the nation."

Tom glared at the empty doorway Peeves had left through. Hot anger warred with cold fear for control, and he grabbed hold of himself and harshly brought both emotions under control. Unlike in the story, it was still hours until dawn; and he didn't need to ask anyone what day it was. He also didn't need to wonder what he was going to do about what he'd been shown. Going straight to his trunk, he retrieved his precious journal – the one he'd used to document everything he'd learned of the Chamber of Secrets and his Slytherin heritage. Sealing the room next, he sat on the bed; put the book down in front of him; held his wand over it; and smiled coldly.

"Since you were so interested in my welfare tonight, I guess it's appropriate that I let you help me with this, Myrtle," he said aloud with a dark laugh. "Your life was a pathetic waste, but at least your death will be part of something great." He laughed again. "Consider it my Christmas present for you as well as for me."

With that, he began the complicated, dangerous spell that was the true start of his quest for immortality and greatness. He would prove the ghosts – and all other doubters – wrong. He was the Heir of Slytherin, and the most powerful Wizard of all time! Fate was his alone to decide, and he would destroy anything or anyone who dared to stand between him and his dreams.


End file.
